Lost and Found
by SavvyNBrash
Summary: On the streets of Mexico, Sands is bleeding and alone—lost and resolved to die. El is looking to help the lost.
1. Default Chapter

Title: Lost and Found Part one  
  
Author: Frost AND Kacey  
  
Rating: PG-13 (Bloody and a tad graphic-for now)  
  
Summary: On the streets of Mexico, Sands is bleeding and alone-lost and resolved to die. El is looking to help the lost.  
  
Disclaimer: We don't own Sands or El, although we're really like to.  
  
Archive: We'd be uber honored.  
  
Authors notes: Our writing is in role play form, and so the styles of each character vary ever so slightly. We don't show any separation of character, because it should be pretty clear just by reading it. Sands is played by Frost (empathicfrost@hotmail.com) and El is played by KC (brashwillturner@aol.com). Oh yeah, and the title is.decidedly tentative.  
  
Gunshots in the distance and sand and wind in his eyes--where his eyes used to be--Agent Sheldon Jeffery Sands was... lost. In a world he didn't know. One of darkness and complete and utter confusion. Where the hell is the balance--why has it left me? I put it there. I -organized- that balance! Where are my eyes? Oh god, my eyes... my eyes... Those gunshots were nothing. Nothing at all. Just noise. Much too loud, and at the same time way too quiet. Was it to the left of him? It didn't make sense. Then again, he'd long ago fallen down completely to the dusty sidewalk, letting his eyes (or lack thereof), legs and arm bleed freely on to the already stained Mexico. The sound vibrated through the ground and it just didn't matter where it was truly coming from. It was everywhere, and he was nowhere. Nowhere in Mexico. Where had his beat gone off to? Probably left him, along with his eyes. They'd been brown. Now everything was dark red and bloody. Or so his mind imagined for him. It was his head that hurt the most. Dusty grains of sand and earth flew freely behind sunglasses that weren't nearly as protective as he'd have liked them to be. Were his eye sockets filling up with sand? Was his face covered with more dust than blood now? It wasn't worth moving his arm to touch his face. Not even a bit. In fact, maybe he would never move again. Maybe he was dying. A little voice in the back of his mind laughed. Well, death isn't so bad, right? You deserved it. No. He didn't. He set it up. It should have fallen. He should be god damned -watching- everything fall. Right now. But instead, he was curled up on the side of the street, and bleeding his life away. How unfair was that? Fuckers. Each and every one of them. At least he'd gotten some bit of revenge already. And his ex-girlfriend was laying dead in a street somewhere else now. Good. At least she'd died first--even if it was only going to be by an hour or so.  
  
There is ash where sand once was. And there is a foreign silence where a festival rally once pulsed aloud with voices, like the heart beats of them all sounding in alliance and community. That has been laid to waste. The smoke bristles angrily from the street and from the fingertips of the burnt alive that had not managed to escape like the others. The stench is a howl in that silence. No, it is not all silence... there is a whistle from the wind, and it grieves low and pitiful through the alley of spilt bullets and blood mixed with cinder which make a pale and sickly red paint on the cobbles and the curbs. And on El's boots. The wind and its whistle play puppy by his side as he walks and sees and listens. And though Mexico's son absorbed the wasteland, he felt stoically released from its horror and as detached as the silence, and at a loss for self. So though he was watching, he was absent, he was trying mutely now to find something. Not particularly anything El had lost, but something he knew was lost. Perhaps the solution to this search was as simple as hand to pick the man up, or as simple as punch in the face - or maybe not. Mexico dealt only the wild card. And from a distance, when he saw the stained shadow pressed pitifully against a wall and swimming in it's own lifeless pool, El knew that his search was not going to end simply. He wasn't going to say anything, no; he wasn't - because it would not matter. The lost one wouldn't hear it anyway. What did they do to you? And he picked Agent Sands up. Shh  
  
Too far gone, and far too weak, Sands didn't even notice the noise of the man walking up to him. He should have. Chains on pants were something noticeable. To a person who wasn't blind, bleeding and thinking himself deaf with too much noise as well. What he -did- notice though, was that he was being picked up. No, no, no. Fucking no! You do not touch me! You will -not- strap me down to another table! There is nothing more you can take from me! A low groaning noise emitted from his throat, and it was more than likely meant to be a very threatening sound. His gun was lost, he noticed. Very likely forgotten on the ground in the street. Left with Ajedrez. He thrashed as wildly as he could, however. Must get free. Don't god damned touch me! My -eyes-! It didn't matter who it was. There was no one friendly left in Mexico. No one on his side--whatever side that was--and most definitely not anyone that didn't want him dead. That was already happening. Let me die in peace, on the ground of this fucking country, I can't afford to die any other way. I can't take more losing of limbs or bodily parts. I don't want to be weak.  
  
It hurt to thrash, however, and the arms holding him were too strong, and he felt himself fading further into the blackness. Was that possible? It was all black now. No! No! He bit his tongue sharply, and mostly on purpose. I won't pass out here! And I most definitely won't die by your means!. Let. Go. Of. Me! He tasted blood in his mouth, and the back of his mind wondered distantly just how hard he'd bitten his tongue.  
  
The question over the American's state of life had been answered with the first fitful buck in protest to being lifted from the festering swamp of blood and dust he had been soaking in - Sands was alive. The next question, concerning the amount of time the American most likely still had, was also answered as the thrashing grew weaker, and as the poison of his blood loss rushed through the small man, El could nearly feel those last staggering grasps for power and strength of a man who was about to die. So he did not make any move to stop the fit, only continued to walk with the wild thing in his grasp, undaunted. What did they do to you? Could a doctor even conjure anything that would help you now? There was no way to tell, but what he did know, however, was where the wounded were going and being seen to. El had even led some people there himself as he had returned to the fringes of the slaughter. The church, the strong, impenetrable stone fortress of the church. All El Mariachi had to do was take Sands there, assure that he was shown notice and leave - maybe it would be simple after all, certainly it would be easy to walk away after that, wouldn't it? Of course. El does not second guess himself. Shhh. Do not fight now. The fight is over, my friend. Why is there so much blood you cry?  
  
He wasn't crying blood, damn it, he was bleeding it. Large, large difference. Usually involving things like sight. Fear was unbecoming of a CIA agent, and so, Sands decided with his last amount of might that he wouldn't be scared anymore. He paused in his thrashing for a long moment, and one would very likely expect that he has passed out--or maybe even died. He -had- lost a lot of blood. Three gun wounds, some would note later. Two missing eyes. Where -had- they gone off to?  
  
But then, he wasn't going to play dead, fuck this. In a tone that was weak, though attempting to manage strong, Sands spoke. "Put me down now, or I'll kill you." The twisted agent was in no such state to do so, but he'd never said -when- he was going to do it. Blood left his mouth when he spoke, his bitten tongue showing off an anger of it's own.  
  
Who on earth was holding him? Part of the cartel--wanting to bring him in for further death? He'd killed the Barillo's daughter, and that was something that they'd kill him for. No more little eye gougings.  
  
It would be easy enough to use the excuse of the agent being caught up in the crossfire of the coup. No problems with the government there, eh? Sands frowned and kept himself still, gathering what little bit of strength he had left--he would be needing it.  
  
"You," The empty voice drawled, gruffly burnt and hoarse and sounded like 'Ju' with the dense accent, "can kill me after we get to the church, Agent Sands." It was his offering and held no note of dishonesty or honesty- it was nearly as mournful and pitiful as the wind's teary whistle. The possibility of the lost one killing him were very slim, but not impossible, as he was expectedly unexpected and curiously three armed. But El, he did not care for thought much, and so decided he wouldn't do it. "I promise." This was a breath of mute relief as the cobbles twisted and the smoke faded and the blood ocean was left behind them. The church was near and the sun chapped arch was clear over the slope of a roof, with a bell and cross on top like a giant, all seeing eye watching over the town, and watching to make sure that El and the lost one found their way to the others. As someone did spot them and rush forward, it was a strangely unexplained reaction when the Mariachi shied away from their offer of assistance, firm on delivering the bloody creature to the inside himself, to the doctors within, to a chance of life. He wanted no one else to bring the CIA agent to that, it felt oddly like obligation and protectiveness. What had once been so strong - was so weakened. Luckily, the wounded around the church were not talking, barely whispering, and everything was placid and dry. Except for the blood that proceeded each booted step as it poured gently from a wound El did not understand or want to understand the measure of. If Sands was not seen by a doctor immediately who could somehow help slow the blood loss, he was to be lost with the ashes filling Mexico's newest, largest wound.  
  
It was so quiet now, that he thought, perhaps he was truly going deaf as well. The man promised? Sands, while drifting in and out of consciousness at an odd rate, would have blinked at that one for a moment, and then grinned. He couldn't blink anymore, so he allowed himself a small and wicked grin. "I'm going to enjoy killing you." Any man that promised his life to another just so it could be thrown away deserved death anyway.  
  
Clink, clink. What the hell? The American's head tilted back weakly, and with no real support to hold it, it bobbed in the open air, in time with that odd clanking sound. What -was- that noise? He knew it, he knew he knew. It just.... eluded him for the moment.  
  
Clink, bob, clink, bob. His head felt heavy, and his eyes felt like they were going to take over his face. His limbs tingled, and he couldn't think straight anymore. He was given the promise of a kill at some point, and as much as he didn't believe the other man, he decided to let his last thoughts before blackness be ones of him murdering another. Not such a bad thing.  
  
Better him than me.  
  
Words left his lips, that he didn't even understand, a cascade of lost confusion. "Mariachi chains. Let go..." And then he was limp in the other man's arms.  
  
More wounded among wounded usually went without extra attention, and so of course, this could not be the case with them. They drew eyes, they drew shattered little shrieks of breath and wrung shivers from those who had seen hell and yet had not seen someone in Sands condition alive. There. Was. Blood. Everywhere. It was black and it was purple and it cradled the face of the American in shadowed mask so thick that most of the people who stared at them now, were probably wondering if there was still a face left, for surely the man must be alive, why else would the Mariachi have brought him? They moved to allow him crossing, to reach the heart of the apse between the aisles. But there was no seat or cushion or bed unoccupied, and so, in accordance with the swiftly approaching doctor, El carefully maneuvered himself to the ground and supported the waif weight of the Agent with his arms, physically repulsed by the lightness of the body and the slack neck he tried to lift with a calloused and numb hand. The doctor's face was not important; El watched the man's hands carefully as they set upon Sands to tie up the bullet hole bleedings first, while the Agent continued to unconsciously sob blood. Sob blood, it was the only way El could rationalize it. When the doctor asked what happened, he was given no reply, not even a grunt from the limp human mattress with a proud sash around his chest.  
  
... And when the glasses were removed. There was only ruin. And El was not going to be leaving as soon as he'd expected. 


	2. Chapter 2

Title: Lost and Found Chapter Two  
  
Author: Frost AND Kacey  
  
Rating: PG-13 (Bloody and a tad graphic-for now)  
  
Summary: On the streets of Mexico, Sands is bleeding and alone-lost and resolved to die. El is looking to help the lost.  
  
Disclaimer: We don't own Sands or El, although we're really like to. (El, anyway. He wouldn't kill us. Not too sure about Sands, though.  
  
Archive: We'd be uber honored.  
  
Authors notes: Our writing is in role play form, and so the styles of each character vary ever so slightly. We don't show any separation of character, because it should be pretty clear just by reading it. Sands is played by Frost (empathicfrost@hotmail.com) and El is played by KC (brashwillturner@aol.com). Also, I just -can't- seem to figure out how to use HTML on ff.net, so it may show up weird with viewing. ***  
  
It was still dark, and it still hurt to even think about moving--that was the first thing that Sands noticed upon regaining consciousness. How long had he been out? Where was he? How did he get where he was? He wouldn't allow himself to voice these questions, let alone let out the noise of pain that was resting in the back of his throat. He refused to scream. Refused. He felt as if he moved, he would sink, or float. Fall back into something darker than black.  
  
Enough of that, he told himself sternly. This is serious--wherever you are, it isn't safe. You need to get Iout/I!  
  
It seemed like a good enough idea. He listened for a long moment, but the ringing in his mind made it hard to concentrate. Fuck it, he'd push himself. Gotta get up. Gotta get out.  
  
Wherever out was, anyway. Elbows were pushed back into the soft sheets of the bed (bed? not some cold metal table this time? ...Hell.) and he bit back a cry of pain at the stab of hurt that raced up his arm. Agent Sands knew then that he was royally fucked--at least for the moment. It hurt to even attempt moving, and already, he was feeling the darkness trying to return--to swallow him back up.  
  
INo./I  
  
His head felt heavy, still. And when he turned his head (only a fraction to the side was what he could manage), the feeling of something chaffing against his upper cheeks was present. What had they -done- to his eyes? IOh god. Oh god. /I  
  
The sun sparked off of the dust in the air, casting a diffused column of light into the room, though it was broken by the shadow of a man filling the window where he sat, and the stubborn evening glow simply filtered around him, seeking the safe insides of the room with warmth. The shadow turned at the sound of the bed occupant stirring, and dust bristled beneath the clothes briefly when he moved to stand, if not for any other purpose than just to be more attentive as it happened. As the American came back around from death to greet the cruel new hell. At least the blood was gone, the sand too, the stench, the smoke. It was just filtered sun now. But Sands wouldn't even be able to feel something as subtle as this. The room was wide and empty and high above the guitar town that slept in the blistered day while the Mariachi watched over it and watched over the lost one. He did not say anything, no. But he did not hide himself, clearing his throat and waiting.  
  
Sands' head shot to the side, in the direction of the noise that had been made. That move was too quick, and it made him wince--but then he quickly hid the expression with a scowl. Hands were too weak to really be of any use to him, but they curled up into trembling fists despite this fact. He wanted to ask where he was--demand to know. Demand to be let go--and he had every intention of doing so. So after a long moment, he calmed himself down, and swallowed down the scream that was crawling up his throat, and let out a little cough. Much better. No pain there, just a cough. Really.  
  
His voice was thready and scratched when he spoke, and even he, who was speaking it could barely hear it. "Where...?"  
  
That certainly hadn't sounded as demanding as he would have liked. Still, he'd managed to speak, and that was better than he'd expected. IAnswers now, whoever you are, or you're dead./I  
  
How that last bit would come true, he had no idea.  
  
With the El Mariachi, you were given two choices to a situation. No more, no less. Give him what he wanted or be killed. Fight or run. El, as well, made his own decisions by only two choices. He was the kind of man who was too densely stoic to even imagine anything more than two choices at a time. To stay in one place, or move on. To save one, or to save another. To lie low or come out of hiding. He didn't like questions, in the end, they added up to nothing for him. His life was spoken by actions, his mind spoken by hands. At the church two days ago, he could've left CIA Agent Sands to die or he could've ensured that Sands was temporarily protected as he healed. Instead of asking someone to do it, he had chosen to do it himself. So here the American lie, in the clean and empty room. With two choices. "Water or smoke." Both were on drawer beside the bed. "On your left." Sands might most likely take both - but there was nothing else to give beyond them. The voice was like husky gravel and there was a sound of him sitting beneath the window. "Guitar Town."  
  
Guitar Town. Great. A voice he finally recognized. Even better. El Mariachi. The man he had employed as his "in" to the president's place. The man who was supposed to kill General Marquez, and allow the President to be killed off. How had it all turned out? Sands didn't want to ask. Probably not as well as he'd hoped.  
  
Guitar Town. El Mariachi. One of the mans' friends had been killed here, by a man Sands had hired himself. Cucuy. Was El planning revenge for the death of his friend? It would figure. It would be an appropriate.  
  
Water or smoke. Agent Sands pushed all other thoughts away from his mind, and tilted his head to the left, as though he were going to look at the table that he imagined to be to the side of the bed. No images. No color. No outline. Nothing. Just. black. Then again, there was bandaging on his eyes.. Maybe he'd been wrong? Maybe (oh, god, please) vision was still an option? A look of hope was quickly covered by reality---leaving his mouth in a straight blank line.  
  
Water or smoke? ...Water for now. Because smoking would just take too damned much effort. And El was the kind of prick that wouldn't bother to hand him the glass. .... Maybe that was for the better. He didn't need help. He was the best. Left hand slowly moved to where he imagined the table to be, and was not surprised when he did find it. The sharp corner of it. Good. Good enough. Slower yet, it edged over the top of that little stand. Don't spill the drink. Don't drop anything. And most of all, do -not- cry out in pain. You've been through worse. ...At some point.  
  
No, there was no revenge to exact upon the head of Agent Sands. There could truly be no thought of it when you were watching a fine boned hand experimentally slip into the air and grope for solidity. What more harm could you do to the harmed? Laugh at them? El didn't laugh. So, it appeared that there was no safer place for the Agent than this room. This is the first, El thought; that Sands has ever woke in a bed without sight. Ever taken a sip of water without sight. Ever... And the dark, brimstone gaze of the Mariachi turned down and he did not watch. He did not want to let himself slip into the shoes of Sands, did not want to imagine it at all. For he knew of having wounds that he thought could never be worse. But Sands was one big wound, and worse off than any El would know. When he does look again, his legs slide out and kiss/scrape the floor boards with heels and a cloud outside makes the room darker and colder against the deep openness of his collar. The guns and anything that Sands could ever harm him with were all in the guitar case behind the door. He felt unconcerned for his safety despite the promise he had made to give his life after the Church recovery.  
  
Glass was now securely cupped between both of his hands, and Sands found it more than a big deal to move his head in the backward direction to take a drink. He did it anyway. IFuck it. I am not weak. /I  
  
El Mariachi's chained pants were loud, even though the man was quiet. Unconsciously, Sands head shifted, so that he was now faced directly with El--or where he was, anyway. He took another short drink of water, the cool liquid sliding down his throat gratefully. He'd rather have liquor. Where had that choice been? Sands scowled at the other man that he knew to be on the other side of the room. "Why?" His voice was still soft, but it had a stronger quality to it, now that he'd drank something. He wondered how long he could even keep that up. IWhy? Why? Why am I here? Why aren't I dead? I -chose- to bleed to death on that dusty little street, you bastard! I chose it! So tell me. Why. Why am I here?/I He knew there was a frown playing on his lips still, and he didn't bother hiding it.  
  
I Set them up, watch them fall--right? Not anymore! /I Shut up. Shut up! ...Answer me, you Mexican fucker!  
  
"It is what I do." The response was undisguised and frank. It was not without emotion, however, for how could a musician be completely without passion? It was not pity he felt, it was resignation and clear surrender to rest. The day of the dead had only been a few days ago, and these hours were still reserved for recovering. El's tone held his repose, his quiet patience. For long before he had been a killer, he had been quite calm and content with song and love. Now, only the patience remained while the satisfaction he had felt over life before now dimmed into dumb acceptance. Accept the sour taste of silence. Accept the ghosts. El knew how to move on, you see. One foot after the other. One bullet after the next. Perhaps he could teach it to Sands, or maybe Sands would die before he could. For El doubted that the Agent was going to get very far from where he was now. "It's been three days."  
  
Three days. He'd been out for three whole days. Too long. His head swam with the idea of it, and he shook it lightly, and it hurt. His head still felt too... different. Tingle. Pain. Black. Oh, how it was black. Painted black--everything.  
  
"Wrong answer." That was Agent Sands' stubborn response. El had no right answering questions like that. "Wrong." More quietly now. This fucker was going to be pistol whipped, just as soon as Sands found a gun. "It's what I do, my Iass/I. -Why-?" Definitely louder. As loud as he could get.  
  
Angry. Each word held a frantic note to it that he didn't even notice. Fingers that were oddly delicate trembled against the glass, and Sands moved (a little too rashly) to sit up in his prison of soft, clean sheets. This guitar playing killer had had -no- right!  
  
It seemed that Sands had no intention of wanting to learn anything from Sands but the answers to his own questions. My way or no way. Such was the way of Agent Sands.  
  
"For no one's intention but my own." Not even offended, tone not even gruffer - if anything, more uncoiled, more given up. "You are not to be sold or delivered...If that is what you were thinking." El did not know the measure of Sands' paranoia, but he knew that the Agent had a great deal of it, and rightfully so, for he had been betrayed. El could only guess who had punished Sands like this in the end. Did it matter to him? They were all dead.I I have only helped you./I But El would not say this, for the American would not believe it. The dark midnight of his head bent back toward the stone wall and rested. Would Sands eat, he wondered? Would Sands rant and rave? He felt unaccustomed to having a presence around him and vaguely wondered what he might have forgotten about having a conversation or aiding someone else's needs.  
  
Boiling anger. For his own intention? What the hell did that mean? Was it supposed to be relieving? It wasn't. He let out an angry noise, even as his hand (filled with the glass of water) moved over a bit to redeposit it's belongings to the table beside him.  
  
He missed. He missed and the glass crashed down to the floor with an angry, and seemingly accusing tone. Hundreds of little broken pieces of glass were now on the floor. Unfixable trash. Sands felt like that glass, just now. But he'd been cracked before, hadn't he? He was just a tad insane, and he always had been. But now it was worse. He wasn't just cracked--he was broken. "Fuck this," usually conversational tone was changed into a snarl, and teeth were even slightly shown. Don't come near this one--he bites!  
  
And then, Agent Sands couldn't stand it anymore. It was black, and pain and he just couldn't stand it. So he fell back into unconsciousness. 


End file.
